So, I murdered a sonnet,
closed him up in a bonnet and left
him to charge me of ****** in 14 lines.
Well it was the length of his words against mine!!!
I shot him with an illegal firearm that
I always used to clothe my arm before I
slaughtered pages,
his shadow was always clothed in suits,
yet his existence so meaningless,
a privileged vocabulary,
well he couldn't fit into the ghetto,
the expressions that reeked blood,
the metaphors that hid black dead slaves,
the rhymes that had discords because a lot
of voices spoke,
I could not imprison those stories in
those white lies,
sorry I mean 14 lines.
I designed his corpse in a body bag,
recited his obituary on poetry stages whilst
my black toes knocked the ground,
nervousness,
the lies enveloped within his lies,
he spoke of bedbugs, Romeos and Juliets,
thus and thus,
I stopped, for his truth was attributed with grotesque lies.
So, I tried to bleach my eyes,
just to try and see the color of his reality,
I tried to express his stories,
but he kept calling my people Othello’s cousins,
he categorized them as kaffirs,
he spoke of thanksgiving, but my lips
shaded with melanin bit themselves because I kept wondering
what my black folks would thank anyone for,
they have been taught to
hang from strong lines that hug their throats,
painted on headlines with RIP hashtags,
so, if a Poet like me would spice up their obituaries with
punchlines maybe they would use
those lines to charm St Peters at Heaven's gates.
I feel like our ancestors have sold us to
death on the other side.
I have grown tired of plucking dreams from
buried graves at feared cemeteries,
speaking to tombstones that are support structures to
dry roses, wilted lilies,
blooming thorns,
so, would you blame me for murdering
a 14-line year old *******
Shakespeare's child.
So, justify me in the Poetry court of
elite critiques.
By the way I plucked Mr. Sonnet's *******
they were too pointy,
I think he was too ***** to be a Poem...
I cut his blonde hair,
and it’s now a mop for my bathroom mess,
I forgot to feed him his own ******
maybe he would've understood what kind of
seeds he fed to these dead Poets societies.
So, I guess I'm already guilty
to some Jury poetry group,
so please sentence me to fourteen lines
behind poetry bars,
maybe I'll come out rehabilitated of my ghetto
lines, or sit me on electric chairs,
guess what, those have become our thrones,
no one notices our pride,
no one sees our poetry lines as power lines,
we cannot even feed our families with these
words,
we were born as street poets,
pirates of the pages,
the ones who hold pens beside pistols,
stop signs and zebra lines don't
really stop us from reaching the
Shangri-Las and Nirvanas of street word.
So, I killed a Sonnet and
buried him in my head's bonnet,
no guilt though,
but he's always behind every thought I embrace,
behind my head!!!
#RIP...... hope they write about you
wherever you are...
Ciao!!!
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 6:15 AM UTC
So, I murdered a sonnet,
closed him up in a bonnet and left
him to charge me of ****** in 14 lines.
Well it was the length of his words against mine!!!
I shot him with an illegal firearm that
I always used to clothe my arm before I
slaughtered pages,
his shadow was always clothed in suits,
yet his existence so meaningless,
a privileged vocabulary,
well he couldn't fit into the ghetto,
the expressions that reeked blood,
the metaphors that hid black dead slaves,
the rhymes that had discords because a lot
of voices spoke,
I could not imprison those stories in
those white lies,
sorry I mean 14 lines.
I designed his corpse in a body bag,
recited his obituary on poetry stages whilst
my black toes knocked the ground,
nervousness,
the lies enveloped within his lies,
he spoke of bedbugs, Romeos and Juliets,
thus and thus,
I stopped, for his truth was attributed with grotesque lies.
So, I tried to bleach my eyes,
just to try and see the color of his reality,
I tried to express his stories,
but he kept calling my people Othello’s cousins,
he categorized them as kaffirs,
he spoke of thanksgiving, but my lips
shaded with melanin bit themselves because I kept wondering
what my black folks would thank anyone for,
they have been taught to
hang from strong lines that hug their throats,
painted on headlines with RIP hashtags,
so, if a Poet like me would spice up their obituaries with
punchlines maybe they would use
those lines to charm St Peters at Heaven's gates.
I feel like our ancestors have sold us to
death on the other side.
I have grown tired of plucking dreams from
buried graves at feared cemeteries,
speaking to tombstones that are support structures to
dry roses, wilted lilies,
blooming thorns,
so, would you blame me for murdering
a 14-line year old *******
Shakespeare's child.
So, justify me in the Poetry court of
elite critiques.
By the way I plucked Mr. Sonnet's *******
they were too pointy,
I think he was too ***** to be a Poem...
I cut his blonde hair,
and it’s now a mop for my bathroom mess,
I forgot to feed him his own ******
maybe he would've understood what kind of
seeds he fed to these dead Poets societies.
So, I guess I'm already guilty
to some Jury poetry group,
so please sentence me to fourteen lines
behind poetry bars,
maybe I'll come out rehabilitated of my ghetto
lines, or sit me on electric chairs,
guess what, those have become our thrones,
no one notices our pride,
no one sees our poetry lines as power lines,
we cannot even feed our families with these
words,
we were born as street poets,
pirates of the pages,
the ones who hold pens beside pistols,
stop signs and zebra lines don't
really stop us from reaching the
Shangri-Las and Nirvanas of street word.
So, I killed a Sonnet and
buried him in my head's bonnet,
no guilt though,
but he's always behind every thought I embrace,
behind my head!!!
#RIP...... hope they write about you
wherever you are...
Ciao!!!
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